


Criminology 101

by captainderp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, College AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Psychology, SHERLOCK IS A PROFESSOR, TW: Suicide, Trigger: Suicide, angsty, awwww yiiiiiiissss, fucking johnlock, there will be more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainderp/pseuds/captainderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU.  Sherlock is a professor of psychology and John is a pre-med taking his class.  Stuck having to analyze someone, John chooses to observe the person who intimidates and interests him the most: his professor.  Sherlock has been spending the past few years helping people to leave the world.  He is the one who pushes them, who pulls the triggers, who holds the bag.  Assisted Suicide, they call it.  He's gotten good at it, too.  It's how he keeps the monster (boredom) from overtaking him.  Now that he's got John Watson watching his every move, will he be found out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first short story type of fiction. (I usually do poetry.) So any feed back at all is appreciated. I am working hard to really get their voices down, so if you see specifics or just pointers, please feel free to leave a comment or drop something in my inbox. Don't forget to check out my profile, you can find my tumblr there.
> 
> I'm going to be updating this really randomly, so check back often. I'm moving pretty fast, and sometimes I'll upload one part of a chapter and then wait a little while and put the next part up. I'm a horrible person, that's why.
> 
> As of 12/16/2012, this is complete.

John Watson sat in a classroom with exactly fifty seven other students.  His best friend, Allen, sat next to him, chewing on the end of a pen he had been using for the past three days.  John had worn the same jumper two days in a row now and it had two stains on it: one from his salad the day before and one from his coffee that morning.

      Sherlock’s foot had tapped six times before he stood up from his desk and said, “Time’s up.”  He’d been watching his students for far too long and he was bored.  He was utterly tired of their stupidity and he wished he hadn’t said yes to teaching a class.  University was beneath him.  It always had been and it still was.

      He picked up fifty seven pieces of paper and looked at John Watson three times.  He looked at Allen twice and he looked at the ground fifteen times.  Nineteen steps to his desk.  Three breaths.  “You’re dismissed.”

      Two minutes and they’ve all scattered like bugs, leaving Sherlock to reluctantly pull on his jacket and walk out to his car.  Two classes a day had cut into his usual routine of nothing and he didn’t particularly like it.  He was tired of how things were going and he only knew one way to stir things up.

      He took the three minute walk to his car, opened the door, sat down.  Two breaths.  One turn of the key.

 ---

      John Watson was sitting on his bed, staring at the dappled ceiling and taking deep breaths.  He was awfully tired but he was also too awake to do anything.  Allen, also his roommate, threw a pillow onto his stomach and laughed.  “Come on, Watson, get up.  You’ve got psych homework.”

      John looked at him and groaned, “Shut up.  Don’t you have some _something_ to be doing?”

      “Nope.  You’ve got me all to yourself.”  He grinned.  “And isn’t that just the best?”

      “Delightful.”  He grabbed a notebook and a pen.  Analyze someone.  He looked at the two words and wanted to groan again.  What the hell did that even me?  He didn’t know anyone who was interesting enough.  Allen was an engineering major without a life, he didn’t know many girls, and he wasn’t in a frat.  Who did that leave?  His parents weren’t very interesting and his teachers— His teachers.

      Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Why not analyze someone he was forced to watch for an hour and a half a day.  He wrote two more words: Professor Holmes.

 ---

      Seventy-three steps to the top of the building.  Two minutes until the man walked up.  He was grizzled, with a beard and bloodshot eyes.  “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

      Sherlock sighed and lit a cigarette.  He inhaled and then flicked it out of his fingers, crushing it beneath his shoe.  “Shall we?”

      Seven steps.  Two deep breaths.  One hand on his back.  One leg off  the roof.  One fall.  Nineteen minutes home.

     ---

      Sherlock was sitting at his desk, reading his paper and drinking his coffee when John Watson came in.  Ten minutes early.  He held a notebook in his right hand and a pen in his left.  He looked tired but alert.  Sherlock did not look at him for more than a moment.

      “Afternoon, professor.”

      He nodded in response.  “Afternoon, Mr. Watson.”

      They sat in silence as other students began to pile in.  Allen came to sit next to John, chewing on the same pen as the day before and listening without really hearing.  He hadn’t ever really wanted to take a stupid psych course anyway.  He was an engineering major, but John hadn’t wanted to go alone and, hey, that’s what best friends are for, right?

      Sherlock stood up and grabbed a piece of chalk, writing the words: Psychoanalysis.  “It’s a broad topic.  So, your next assignment will consist of a multitude of parts.  We’ll begin with the first: Observation.  You’ll pick one person that you spend an adequate amount of your time with and you will document their idiosyncrasies.  Next week, when we meet, you must have at least five pages of observations.”  Two deep breaths.  “Now to delve into how you should document them…”

      John was watching Sherlock.  He always seemed to lick his upper lip when he was about to say something long.  His right hand was always in use but his left hand stayed out of the action.  His breath was sucked in, as if he were gasping for air.  He seemed ravenous for oxygen.

      “Mr. Watson?”

      He was brought back from staring at Sherlock.  “Who have you chosen as your study?”

      “Uh—“ John didn’t know what to say.  The truth came out of its own accord.  “You.”

      Sherlock didn’t blush, but heat rose to his face as he frowned and said, “That will be interesting.  To all of you thinking that would be a good idea, if you even contemplate plagiarizing Mr. Watson’s idea, then you will be given the zero you deserve.  This project will be multiple grades, culminating into an average that will count as your end term.”

      He droned on until the end of class, discussing details.  At the last moment, though, he said, “Mr. Watson, can I talk to you, before you depart?”

      The students scrambled out leaving John and Sherlock alone.  “Why did you choose me?”

      “I spend an hour and a half with you every day it seemed…”

      “Easy?”

      “Interesting, sir.”

      Sherlock sighed and picked up his bag.  “I expect good work, Mr. Watson.”

      “Yes sir.”  John walked out in front of his professor and turned down the hallway, taking a deep breath.  His stern expression and authority made John forget how to breathe.  Everything about that man intimidated him.  He looked back to see Sherlock’s head of dark, curly hair disappearing around a corner.  His breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes.  Observing the person who unnerved him the most.  It was something off about Sherlock, the way he seemed to hate everything but still need it.  He was starving for something and that insatiable hunger made John shiver.

\---

      Two doors.  One seat.  One gun.  One bullet.  One woman with one note.  She said to Sherlock: “I’m afraid.”

      “It’s alright.  You’ve made your decision.”  He took the gun and placed it against her head.  He put his finger on the trigger.

      “Wait!”  Sherlock did not wait.  The woman lay dead, slumped in the chair as blood trickled down her face, down the wall.  Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out, peeling off his gloves.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.

 ---

      John took a deep breath.  The classroom smelled like black coffee and frat kid cologne.  He tapped his pencil as he watched Sherlock, trying to observe but he kept getting distracted by the very mannerisms he should have been focusing on.  Sherlock stepped with left foot in front, but when he stood, his feet were even.  He always seemed to tilt his head—

      “Mr. Watson, observing does not equate to staring.”

      He looked at Sherlock, then at the class.  They were all writing in their notebooks, some furiously, others with little care.  John coughed and looked down.

      “I suppose you weren’t listening.  They’re writing, from memory, mannerisms of their subject.  No cheating.”  His face was blank, so the joke fell flat.  Sherlock hadn’t had anyone intelligent to talk with and John seemed to understand, but he was still rusty.

      John began to write.  _Sherlock believes himself to be smart.  I can see it in the way he stands.  He places his arms behind his back, presenting his chest forward as if to say, “I am invincible.”  He is trying to intimidate us with his stare—penetrating yet distant.  We are not a part of his life and he is sure of it.  He never chews gum, only drinks coffee.  He drinks it black, or at least it smells that way.  He seems to count, sometimes I’ll hear him mutter under his breath saying four, five, six, and so on and so forth._

      “You’re dismissed.”  Sherlock took the seven steps around his desk, sat down and shuffled papers, and sighed.  John approached him.

      “Professor Holmes?”

      Sherlock looked up at him, noting the sweater and khakis, the neatly combed hair, and the white teeth.  “Yes, Mr. Watson?”

      “The observations… I can’t help but attach reasons to them.  Should I not do that?  Should I just write down the mannerisms or can I answer the question of “why”?”

      “You’re getting ahead of your _peers_.  You do not have to exclude those notations but they will be saved, for the most part, to be used in the second assignment.”

      “Thank you.”

      “You're welcome.”

      John turned around slowly and walked.  Sherlock’s eyes followed him, boring holes into his sweater until the heat on John’s back made him blush and sweat.  Something… Something was off.

     ---

      He found himself at a table on the corner of Eighth and Second, watching Sherlock sit and chat with a woman of about thirty.  He was sipping on a water and pushing a salad around his plate.  He was a week into his assignment and he didn’t think it would mean stalking his professor, but there wasn’t any other way for him to learn what motivated the mysterious man.  He had to know the what so he could know the why.  He heard words—out of context and odd—float from the other table.  Words like “implication” and “privacy.”  He watched the woman leave and Sherlock took a drink of his coffee, his eyes landing on John as a small smile crept onto his lips.

      John froze where he was.  Every inch of his body crawled like there were insects beneath his skin.  He forgot how to breath.  His organs refused to work and all of the sudden his heart seemed to stop.

      Sherlock stood up and walked over to John’s table, pulling a chair out and sitting down.  “I knew you were here, Mr. Watson.  Quite obviously to learn something about me.  Although, I must ask—why did you just inquire about my daily life?”

      He stammered, “I—well, people lie, professor.”

      “Do I lie, Mr. Watson?”

      “No, no, I’m not saying that you do, I’m just saying that at the time, this seemed logical and I guess it wasn’t.”

      The same hint of a smile played on Sherlock’s lips as he took a long drink of his coffee.  “No, I suppose it wasn’t.  I should hope that you’ll either do a better job of hiding your presence, or you will simply have to start trusting me.  It is my job to educate, after all.”

      John could only nod, and it was a pitiful nod.  He sucked in air and Sherlock’s scent hit him, something dusty but filled with promise, potential.  He wanted to hold that coat to his nose and never stop smelling it.  He wanted it to fill his lungs and never stop.  But he couldn’t.  He just sat there staring at his professor.

      Sherlock stood.  “Have a good day, John.”

      “You—You too professor.”

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a few things out, and Sherlock seems almost too at ease with it all.

As afraid as he was of his subject, he knew that he could find out more by following the woman.  He waited until after she left her next meeting with Sherlock and he fell into step a short ways behind her, head down, his eyes locked on his phone.  She was about five and a half feet tall with a slim figure and dark hair.  Her hands were stuffed into her coat pocket as she walked, a slow steady rhythm beating its way into the pavement.

      She turned a corner and John followed, but when he rounded it he smacked straight into her.  She had stopped to look at something in a shop window.  He bent over and picked up the papers she had dropped; he didn’t know she had even been carrying anything.  Her eyes were bloodshot; her mascara smeared and running.

      “Excuse me, I didn’t see you.”  He handed her the papers.  “Are—are you alright?”

      She shook her head no and accepted the papers.  “But I’ll be just fine. It’ll work itself out.”  She paused and took a breath.“I’ve got help.”  She smiled and turned, thanking him quietly before ducking into the store.

      John turned and headed back to his dorm.  He was more confused than he had been—who was she?  What did Sherlock have to do with her?  Was he the one helping her?  None of it made sense.  Now he knew even less about his subject than he had before.  And, if it was a secret, why would Sherlock let John find out?  He couldn’t even begin to understand the enigma of Professor Holmes.

 

 ___

      “Merriam Williams, 32, killed herself in her apartment on the night of September 3rd, making her suicide the third this week.  Experts are baffled by this sudden rise in the district, where the rates have stayed as low as fifteen to twenty a year.  More news at eleven, now back to the weather.”

      John clicked the telly off and stared.  She had killed herself.  But didn’t she say it was getting better?  She had help?  Was Sherlock just the worst psychologist ever?  He laid down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.  He would have to confront him about this.  Why?  He needed to know why.  Someone had just killed themselves.  Forget intimidation and school projects, this was life and death.

 

 ___

      “Professor Holmes?”

      “Yes, Mr. Watson?”

      John was in Sherlock’s office during the one mandatory hour he had it opened.  He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs, waiting for Sherlock to look up.

      “Yes, Mr. Watson?”  He said it again, finally looking up to see John’s tired face.  He took in the circles under his eyes, the wrinkles that settled on his forehead, and he sighed because of it.  “What can I do for you?”

      “Who was that woman?”

      “A friend of mine.”

      “Do you know she’s dead?”

      Sherlock leaned back and twirled his pen between thin fingers.  “Yes, I did.”  John had his full attention.

      “I had just talked to her, two days before… She said it would be okay, it would work out.  Why is she dead?”  His words were harsh pleas; he wanted answers.

      “Merriam didn’t really like where she was.  She had decided to change her situation.”

      “So you knew—you knew she was going to kill herself?”

      “She entrusted me with the news.  It was my job to make sure she got what she wanted.”

      “What do you mean?”  He was so confused.  What did any of it mean?

      Sherlock stood up and went to close the door.  He rolled his sleeves up quarter length and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and taking a deep breath.  “John.  You’re intelligent—I wouldn’t bother with you if you weren’t—but, I don’t know if I can entrust this to you.”

      “You can.”  He said it almost too quickly, too eagerly.

      “You’re not going to go to anyone with this, I know that, but I don’t want you to turn into a heap of emotions on the floor.  I don’t do emotions.”

      John nodded.

      “I’m a suicide consultant.”

      “A what?”

      “I make sure that people, when they make the decision, go through with planned suicide.  Often times emotions can get in the way.  I’m there to prevent that.”

      “You kill people?”

      “They kill themselves, John, they always do.”  He looked down at his fingers, running his hand over his nails and then looking back at John.  “I am helping them.”

      “You’re killing them.”

      “They’re making the conscious choice weeks in advance, settling their affairs, and choosing to depart from this world.  I am making sure nothing goes wrong.  I am a coordinator.”

      “Why?”

      “Many of them are sick, some are tired, others have lost everything and everyone.  They just want peace.  They’re bored.  I have never taken an emotional client.  It’s only at the last moment that they might back off.”  
      John stared at Sherlock.  “No.  You kill people.”

      He sighed.  “No, I do not.”

      “I can’t believe it, my psych professor is a murderer.”

      “John, this is precisely what I was asking you not to do.”

      He shook his head, “Are you going to kill me now that I know?”

      “No!  Stop it.  You’re embarrassing yourself.”

      “If I asked you, would you help me kill myself?”

      “With legitimate reason, yes.”

      “You’re a monster.”  John stood up and turned, storming out.

      Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and resumed his task of grading papers.

___

      The next class was suffocating for John.  It sucked the ability to observe from him.  He could only sit there and see Sherlock as a monster.  He was pulling a trigger with a smile that said, “I’m in control.”  John had never really seen that smile, but he supposed that Sherlock would let his mask fall in such a situation and his lip would turn upward, his eyes looking down but still shining as he tilts his chin forward in exultation.

      His blank expression and quick words never would have denoted such a spirit within, had John not of known, he couldn’t have known.  Finding out was easy, almost… to easy?  Did Sherlock want him to know?  John groaned inwardly.  Psychology professors and psychopaths, both people he did not like to deal with.  (Or so he had been learning.)

      He liked to think that Sherlock was lonely, looking for company in someone who would—what?—understand?  John had done nothing but demean his way of “helping.”  But it was wrong.  Assisted suicide, if that was even what it was, still had amoral implications.  How could someone so intelligent justify murder?  It was overwhelming and he still had to turn in psychoanalysis of his professor.  A full ten pages of the what’s and why’s and how’s.  Things that, if he got wrong, Sherlock could count off on.  This was turning out to be a really stupid idea.

 

 ___

**Professor Sherlock Holmes**

 

_> Observation One: Stance.  Subject holds his hands behind his back when pacing.  When talking animatedly, he uses his right hand, leaving the left hand to rest at his side.  (Although this is rare, he is usually not enthusiastic.)  Presumably, his open stance is his way of asserting his authority.  He is not defensive, because he “has no reason to be.”  These are the stances generally taken by psychopaths trying to lure victims for the slaughter._

      That may have been a little harsh, but John thought it was very true.  He wrote it in the hopes that Sherlock could hear the malice.

_> Observation Two: Breath.  He takes deep breaths.  They are measured and controlled, as if he didn’t need to waste any more time than was necessary on it.  At times, the subject will suck air in, through his nose, as if it’s something he’s been missing for a long time._

_> Observation Three: Sitting.  The subject sits with his right leg crossed over the left one, with neither of his feet moving.  Both of his hands rest on his sides or on top of one another, on his knee._

      And so on and so forth, until he had ten pages of malice filled mannerisms.  He couldn’t help but hate Sherlock a little.  He couldn’t wrap his mind around anything that he did, because it literally made no sense to anyone who wasn’t a psychopath.

He had determined that Sherlock was, indeed, a full-blown psychopath.  He didn’t seem to have any friends; he was distant from his family.  (John had found out from asking the dean, who was very good friends with John’s dad.)  He seemed to have trouble speaking with most people, and he avoided social situations.  He was organized, intelligent, and amoral.  He was the monster in the closet, the neighbor who seemed normal, and the teacher who knew too much.

 

 ___


	3. Chapter 3

John had a terribly stupid idea.  He wanted to test Sherlock.  He reasoned with himself; no, he wouldn’t kill John.  So he pitched this to Sherlock.  “I want to die.”

      “Why?”

      They were in Sherlock’s office, alone, again.

      “I—I can’t seem to keep this up.  It’s piling on and I can’t handle it, Sherlock.  Do you know what it’s like to hold a weight on your shoulders for your entire life?  It’s tiring.”

      “And what weight is that?”

      “The weight of expectations.”

      “Alright.”  He took out a pen and paper.  “Have you drafted a will yet?  And have you considered the method?”

      John paused and shut his eyes, shaking his head.  “You were going to do it.”

      “A client is a client, Mr. Watson.”

      “I am a student.  What happened to legitimate reasons.  Weight on my shoulders?  You know that’s bullshit.”

      “Have you stopped to consider that I knew precisely why you were doing this?”  
      He had considered it, for a moment.  He had wanted to believe that Sherlock was so evil that he had been blind to the facts that were right in front of him.  Yes, this was harsh and amoral, but maybe he was helping people.  No.  No.  No.  John couldn’t just shake the idea like that.  It was murder.  “Murder, professor, it’s still murder.”

      “Assisted suicide.”

      “I don’t care about technical terms!  I care about people living.  I want to save lives, dammit, not watch you help destroy them.”

      “Fine.  Don’t watch.”

      “But I can’t just—You can’t just—No.  This is wrong.  I have to tell someone.”

      “John.”  
      He stopped, mid-stand, and saw that Sherlock was staring at him.  He straightened up and coughed.  “Now you’re going to kill me.”

      “No, I’m not going to kill you.  I never was.”

      “Then what?”

      “Think about what you’re doing.”

      “I’m stopping a murderer.”

      “Are you?”

      He didn’t know.  The way Sherlock said it—his face and those damned eyes.  But he was a manipulator.  What if he was lying?  What if it was all an act?

      “I’ll stop.”

      “What?”

      “If—and only if—you can find something to interest me.”

      John nodded and picked up his book sac, turning.  “Thank you, professor.”

      Sherlock had already gone back to reading.  He flipped to the next page and as the door shut he allowed himself a small, satisfactory smile.

___

 

What would interest a psychopath?  John couldn’t exactly go and buy him a puzzle.  He sat on his bed, staring at the news droning on and on as he thought.  What could I bring to him that would interest him and occupy his mind.

      _Another suicide victim has been found.  Twenty nine year old Jacob Sal hung himself in his apartment last night.  Reports say that he was suffering from a rare form of Leukemia and he was about to enter into treatment.  No note has been found.  The full story at eight._

 

      John gritted his teeth.  Another?  How many people wanted to die?  How could Sherlock do such a thing?  He stared at his hands.

 

      _Police are still searching for a young girl’s killer.  Last May her body was found in a sewer, with signs of strangulation.  No suspects have surfaced and authorities fear the killer may strike again soon.  More on that after the weather._

Murder.  _Murder._   Why hadn’t he thought of it before?  John felt like a goddamn genius.  He would get Sherlock to solve the murders, instead of committing them.  He could see it now: Sherlock Holmes, Detective for the Queen herself.  It would be such a spectacular use of his talents.  John couldn’t wait to share his idea.

 

___

 

      “Have you ever thought about helping solve crimes?”

      “Tried it once.  Boring.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean, I solved a crime, called in the clues anonymously, and was arrested myself.”

      “Why?”

      “Apparently I ‘knew the crime too well.’”

      “Ah, well, um… You know what?  You need a liaison.  Someone who knows how to handle people.”

      “And you’re volunteering?  Great.  When should we start?”

      “I never said—“

      “It’s the only way, John.”

      “I’ve got my classes…”

      “Don’t worry about psychology.  And you’re intelligent, you can handle the rest.”

      John sighed.  He was right, he probably could handle it, but it would be difficult.  “Fine.  I’ll go and talk to the police and see if they’d be willing to give you a chance.”

      Sherlock dug a huge file folder out of his desk and offered it to John.  “These are cold case files I might have gotten ahold of.  They’ve all got the culprit’s name, reason, and current location attached to them.  If they won’t take me on after that, then they don’t deserve me.”

      He took it reluctantly, leafing through it.  “There must at least thirty here—why—oh… Because of… Mmmhmmm.”  John stood up and nodded.  “Thank you, Sherlock.”

     

___

 

      “This is… Impressive and also very, very scary, Mr. Watson.”  Detective Lestrade looked at him.  “Who did you say gave you this information?”

      “Sherlock Holmes, my psychology professor.  We just want to help.”

      “I don’t know if you will be able to, but if I can convince the higher ups then we’ll take you.  Some of these cases are twenty years old…”  He shook his head and kept flipping through the file folder.

      The two of them were in the police station, in Lestrade’s office.  John stared out the window into the parking lot, watching the cars come in and out, the people go to and fro.  He had been nervous—he had to admit that—but if it meant stopping Sherlock’s other habit, then it was worth it.  The detective had been staring out the very same window before John had come in.  While he didn’t understand at first, it seemed that Lestrade caught on fairly quickly, and maybe, just maybe, it could work out.

      “So, is there anything else I can do, to maybe help them make a decision?”

      “If you could bring this… Sherly kid in, then I’d be grateful.”

      “Sherlock.”

      “Hm?”

      “His name is Sherlock.  Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Ah, right.  Also, could you possibly take this to him?”  He rummaged around beneath his desk and grabbed a stack of papers, handing them to Watson. “These are the reports for the murder that happened back in May, I’m sure you’ve heard of it—the little girl?  Tell him to take a look at it.”

      “Thank you, detective.”  
      “No, thank you, Mr. Watson.”  He stood up and shook John’s hand, laughing a little to himself.  Sherlock Holmes.  This was going to be interesting.

     

___

 

      “It was her mother.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Her statement—she said it with emotion but her face was blank.  She didn’t seem sad that her child was dead.  Not to mention the sewer is two blocks from her mother’s place of work, her mother’s boyfriend’s house, and her favorite restaurant.”

      “And you know all that?”

      “Observation.  Just look, you’ll see it too.”

      John pulled out his mobile and punched in Lestrade’s number, relaying the information to an astonished detective.  When he hung up, he was smiling.  “We’re in.”

      “Good.  I’ll give my clients a call.  I will see you tomorrow, John.”

 

___

 

      Sherlock had always been a very bored teenager.  He never cared much for anything except for information and learning and quenching that boredom.  He was eighteen when he made the mistake.  She was seventeen, full of energy and lacking any self-control or dignity.  He wanted to test a hypothesis.

      He could objectify people, he could compartmentalize, he could shut them out.  What feeling would the power of life and death elicit from him?  Would he feel at all?  He had formed a very dense, complicated study that ended with something he had not expected.

 

      _Ten Years Earlier_

_The snap of rubber gloves brought her back into the world.  Where was she?  The room was unfamiliar.  She looked around and her eyes landed on the boy before her.  “Sherlock?”  The word came out of her dry mouth and hit him like a wave.  He was about to kill this girl.  He was standing before her with the ability to take her life away._

_“Sarah.”_

_“Sherlock where am I?  What’s going on?”  She tried to move her hands and her feet, but she found them bound to the chair.  The room was large, clinical, and empty expect for the two of them and a table._

_Sherlock took a deep breath.  He turned and wrote something down in his notebook.  When he straightened Sarah had begun to cry.  “Please tell me what’s going on.”_

_“I’m working on an experiment.”_

_“What are you going to do?”_

_“This won’t be painful.”_

_He picked up an oxygen mask and placed it over her mouth and nose.  “This is nitrous oxide.  You won’t feel it.”_

_She tried to yell, tried to make him stop, but each desperate gasp for air made her drift farther and farther away.  She took one last, shallow breath and died._

_Sherlock turned and wrote his findings in his journal before he began filling a plastic tub with various acids._

 ___

      He had been a stupid teenager then.  He regrets it, thankful that he didn’t have the idea to find out if torture elicited any emotion from him.  So when he found himself sitting in Lestrade’s office with the case file saying “Unsolved” and “Sarah Lycell” on it, he didn’t know how to react.  The crime had been perfect.  There had been no evidence whatsoever.

      “Sherlock?”  John looked down at the file from behind him.  “What’s that?”

      “An old case they asked me to look at.”

      “Where’s Lestrade?”

      “He went to go get a donut.”

      John nodded and sat down, “So what’s the case about.”

      Sherlock stared out the window.  “A girl who went missing ten years, six months, and nine days ago.  Her body was never recovered, no one was ever arrested, and insofar, they are still lost.”

      “Have any ideas about it?”

      “Yes.”

      “And?”  
      “I believe that whomever committed the crime was a very intelligent individual who knew what they were doing.”

      “Oh, come now, no one can go without leaving a single piece of evidence.”

      “There wasn’t a crime scene.”

      “So we don’t know if she’s dead?”

      “She is.”  He turned and took the coffee out of John’s hand, downing half of it.  “The kidnapper killed her only hours after taking her.  Otherwise they would have gotten a ransom call, or they would have found evidence.”  He handed the cup back.  “He took her quickly.  She knew him and so there was no reason not to go with him.  She was knocked out in the car and taken to a secure location where he both dispatched her and disposed of her.”

      “Did they look into her friends?”

      “Yes.”  
      “Any likely suspects?”

      Sherlock handed the case file to John.  There was one line highlighted.

     

      Acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes, taken in for questioning.  Released.

 

      The gears in John’s head began to turn.  “You knew her?”

      “I did.”

      “You were good friends with her?”

      “We were, as it says, acquaintances.”

      “Why did they take you in for questioning?”

      “I was one of her classmates and I lived near her.  I also was known for my intelligence.  The same type of intelligence shown by the killer.”

      “Sherlock—“

      Lestrade stepped back into the office, white powder coating his mouth.  “So, what have you got for me?”

      Sherlock was suddenly all business, “The best course of action would be to close the case.”

      He drank some of his coffee noisily.  “And why is that?”

      “The killer is probably dead or in jail.  No one is meticulous enough to not make mistakes.  He probably has done this elsewhere and got caught.”

      “You called him a killer.”

      “She’s dead.  I am one hundred percent sure of that, detective.”

      “Well, alright.  I’ll take your word for it.  This file will go into our vault and I will have another stack of them for you tomorrow.  Sound good?”  
      “Yes.”

      Sherlock stood and John followed right after him.  “We need to talk, professor.”  The last word came out almost strained.

      “Yes, Mr. Watson?”

      They made it outside and into Sherlock’s car before John said, “You killed her, didn’t you?”

      “No.”

      “Don’t lie.  Lestrade is too stupid to see it, but I can.  I know that you killed her.”

      “I didn’t kill her.  Don’t talk about it any further.”

      "Fine."  They left in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too soon? Meh, don't care.

John was contemplating taking a large, sharp object and stapping his professor with it.  Six times he had denied the murder, seven times John had said, "You're lying."  Or so it had gone by the time they saw one another again.  Sherlock stared at him and he stared at Sherlock.  The office smelled like smoke.  Since when did he smoke?  John brushed the thought away and went back to staring.  
  
"You're going to have to confess one day."  
  
<p>"I refuse to confess, I did not commit the crime.  Therefore, no explanation is warranted." </p>  
  
"You make me sick.  I thought--"  He clenched his fists.  "I thought you were changing."  
  
Sherlock didn't show any sign of the emotion boiling within him.  Someone who had believed he wasn't a monster--if only for a moment.  He pressed his fingernails into the fabric of his chair and sighed.  "I was eighteen, a stupid kid."  He took a deep breath.  "I regret it with everything I have."  
  
John looked away, staring at the carpet and picking absently at his pants.  This wasn't how he had expected it going.  He wasn't even sure how he had expected it to go, but this certainly wasn't it.  "Oh."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just, I didn't think you'd--"  
  
"That I would tell you?"  Sherlock snorted.  "Grow up, John.  We aren't teenagers, this isn't gossip alley.  We're adults.  We play by our own rules and you've shown me that you uphold yours."  
  
"Well, I... Thank you?"  
  
"Can we drop it now?"  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
Sherlock looked at his student, wondering what had gotten them into this mess.  Who was this kid, anyway?  He didn't know.  Sometimes, the ones with the most control are the ones flying by the seat of their pants.  
  
"Would you like to get a drink, professor?"  
  
He was shocked from his thoughts my this.  "What?"  
  
"A drink.  Alcohol.  Wine, rum, vodka, I don't care."  
  
"Yes, why not?"  He stood up and pulled on his coat and scarf, smiling a little.  "A drink sounds good."  
  
John followed after him as he barreled through the door.

 

___

 

While Sherlock was very shocked to say he couldn't understand why John was lying half naked on his floor hugging a bottle of wine like it was his child, he didn't hate it.  He looked down to see his own shirt missing, along with his shoes and socks.  He sat up on the couch and turned, wincing.  His fingers immediately flew to his back, where they felt minute but numerous scratches.  Had they...?  Sherlock didn't black out, no, never... He would have remembered if that had happened.  Right now he was more concerned about his student, who didn't look very alive.

He nudged John with his foot and heard a grunt.  "Go away."  So he nudged him again, and again, and again.  John finally turned over and released the wine bottle, exposing messy hair and a lack of pants.  He still, suprising, had his shirt on.  "Good morin--"  He looked at Sherlock closely and then stopped, sitting up.  "Where am I?"  He took in the rest of his surroundings.  "What happened?"

"I was hoping your spectatular memory could fill me in on that, but I suppose not."  Sherlock rolled his eyes and just sat there, staring at him.

"Where are my goddamn pants, Sherlock?"

"What?  You think I took them?"

"You think  I took off my pants of my own accord?"  


"I'm not a pants theif, John.  What kind of man do you take me for?"

He snorted and looked around for his missing clothing.  Sherlock took this opportunity to talk.  "I believe we may have engaged in..."

"No, we did not, Sherlock, shut up.  Where the hell are we anyway and WHERE ARE MY DAMNED PANTS."  He moved behind the couch and groped underneath it until his hands touched fabric, pulling out a pair of pants.  He slipped them on and moved to sit in a chair.

"We're in my flat, calm down."  
  
"Calm down?  I am in my professor's flat, I was half naked, and I can't remember last night."  He put a hand to his head, "And this hangover, christ."

"I'll make us some tea."  Sherlock stood up and hurried to the kitchen, still lacking his shirt.

John stared at the ground.  What was he doing?  Should he leave?  This was all getting out of hand.  He may or may not have slept with a murderer who was also his professor.  It was overwhelming his brain.  How does one get out of this kind of situation?  He sighed as Sherlock brought in a cup of tea and handed it to him, taking a seat and drinking his own.

"John--I..."  He paused and looked into his cup.  "I've never been very good at reading body language, despite being observant.  I can't tell how you're feeling.  Are you... Okay?"

His eyes came to rest on Sherlock, his disheveled hair, his collarbones and thin arms.  He wanted to sigh again.  "I'm fine, thank you."  He sipped his tea.

"I believe the best course of action would be to forget this night, and perhaps one another."  Sherlock had looked away, out the window into the dark, gloomy morning.

"I still have class--"

"You'll pass, I've already told you that."

"But professor... I..."

"What, John?"

He shook his head, "Yes, perhaps it would be for the best."  John stood and gathered his things, putting the tea down.  "I will take my leave then."  Turning, he left Sherlock's flat.

"Farewell."  Sherlock's words met the door and ricocheted back to him.  He was met with only silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, for now. Follow up? Maybe later.


End file.
